Crows and Butterflies
by Nythtak
Summary: Random one-shots, varying characters and themes, prompts welcome. Chapter 1 - "Steve thought he knew the meaning of fear." Chapter 2 - "Loki is chaos personified. He is not its master, its God, no, he is but a leaf caught in the hurricane that is the unstoppable force."
1. Chapter 1, Steve - Fear

Steve thought he knew the meaning of fear.

_(it was blood and death and bombs exploding in the distance and the ground shaking beneath his feet and _Bucky _falling falling falling and then _he _is falling too, down down into the ice-)_

When he was younger it meant something different. It's almost funny in a way; back then, when he was small and weak and sickly, fear had never been something that really intimidated him. He felt it, sure, when he was cornered in another ally by guys so much bigger than him, or when Bucky set him up with some pretty girl and all he could do was stumble over his words (if they even spoke to him, that is), or when he applied for the army again and again, just waiting for them to catch him out.

And yeah, those fears were pretty tame in comparison to, well, everything he'd faced since joining the army. But he was a normal guy back then, with normal hopes and dreams, and normal fears too. What a lot of people seem to forget is that it was back then, when he was weak an helpless, that he dove on top of a grenade. He knew that it would kill him, that it would be painful if he lived long enough to feel it, but he overcame those fears faster than the other guys (the soldiers, the guys twice his size and three times his weight, the ones who were stronger and faster and better-) ran for cover.

Being brave had nothing to do with how strong you were. It was far easier, after all, to be fearless with a gun in your hand.

Or in his case, a serum. Bit more drastic than any gun, and it had so far proven a lot more effective. Everything that happened during the war – the rescues, his so-called heroics, that final mission – could he really be called fearless with such an advantage on his side? Not that any of it was easy – he wouldn't disgrace the lives lost by saying that – but could he have done any of that without the serum? _(everything special about you comes out of a bottle)_

No. He almost laughed at the mental image of himself, the scrawny pre-serum Steve trying to do any of that. The amusement was quickly drained from him though. Erskine had chosen him, had seen something in him, had decided to give him a _chance _when no one else would. But what if he'd chosen wrong? There had to be guys who were better than him, who were _special. _Someone who'd bee training for years, maybe, or some genius (he'd been meeting so many of them, after all) who could use the effects of the serum so much better than he could.

He shook his head with an aggravated sigh. There was no use in thinking about stuff like that, it was all in the past-

Steve flinched at the turn his thoughts took. _It's all in the past, just like I should be._

When he'd woke up...at first, it had seemed like some sort of miracle. He was alive! Alive, when he was so certain he was going to die (_so afraid to die_). Instantly his thoughts had turned to Peggy, and a grin almost crossed his face.

And then he realised everything was wrong_wrongwrong. _

Frozen in ice for seventy years. He couldn't believe them, hadn't _wanted _to believe them. Because that would mean everything he knew (_and loved_) was gone.

Seventy years, and it felt like just weeks ago.

He was in New York, but it wasn't the one he knew. Culture, language, science; he was an outcast from it all. He didn't get any of the references people made, couldn't connect with anyone (the battlefield didn't count, because then it didn't matter _when _it was, all that mattered was keeping his team safe and defeating the enemy. During those times he was _Captain America, _a hero and leader of the Avengers, not _Steve Rogers, _ordinary guy from the 40s). It was strange and alien, a distorted reflection of the world he knew, and he could barely keep from screaming. Sometimes _(most of the time) _he wished they had just left him there in the ice, wished the serum wasn't so effective, wished he could ignore his morals and just _end it_-

Man out of time. Ironic, that it was an enemy who summed up his situation the best. He felt like a fixed point in time, and the rest of the world had moved on without him. He was stuck the way he was, a man (barely) from another century, plucked neatly from his own world and into the chaotic mess of this one. He tried to adapt, but it was so _different _he may as well have moved to another planet. And yet, it was similar enough that he only felt more out of place, like a stranger in a crowd of people who all knew each other.

This was real fear. To lose everything you had, everything you _were. _And of course nobody understood; how could he expect them to? Thor still had Asgard, a family and a home to return to, a _people _to return to. All the people Steve knew were dead. He'd checked, just in case, and he'd missed Peggy's death by six years. (_A small, terrible part of him was relieved)_

He thought he'd get used to it. Maybe he would, eventually, but for now all he had was his memories of a long-distant past which felt like barely a month ago, memories of war and fighting and ghosts. He could see them in his eyes. The faces of the dead (because who had he knows who now wasn't dead?) haunted him, drew dark shadows beneath his eyes and woke him in the night with barely contained screams.

_Fear of the unknown. _Well, Steve felt like he didn't know anything, so what did that say about his fears?

**.**

**Yeah, not too cheerful, I know. Well, I hope you enjoyed(?) reading anyway, please leave a review! They really do encourage me to write more, and any prompts are welcome. I'll probably do more one-shots focussing on other characters, we'll see :)**


	2. Chapter 2, Loki - Chaos

Loki is chaos personified. He is not its master, its God, no, he is but a leaf caught in the hurricane that is the unstoppable force.

_(and he is trapped, unable to escape its grasp, can only pray that he can survive the onslaught and not lose himself completely)_

He is chaos but Asgard is _order, _Asgard is _stagnation, _and he is only young yet he feels he has seen all that it has to offer. Nothing changes, there is nothing new or exciting or interesting or _chaotic. _He tries, with his tricks and his lies and his learning, but nothing can quell the itch in his mind, the splinter that is growing and _cracking his mind _until he can barely think for the pounding in his head, the rhythmless tempo of drumbeats telling him to _do something-_

So he sabotages and he steals and his harmless mischief becomes cruel and messy. He accepts his punishment with a small smile through the thick threads stitching his lips together, because he can finally _think _again, the drumbeat fallen to barely a whisper _(Dun-dun, dun-dun)_. He doesn't tell them, not his father or his mother or his brother, because he knows that what he is cannot be changed. It is the nature of Chaos, to destroy _(and create) _all that in its path, and the flickering resentment is not enough for him to ever wish this madness upon them.

When his punishments ends there is peace for a while, and he concentrates on his studies and magic without the drive to put it to use_._ But when he begins to hear the thundering beat that has never, ever made him think of his brother, he knows he has to do something _(the scars across his mouth have faded)_.

So he learns the paths of Yggdrasil, all its back doors and secrets and treasures, he learns its branches with precarious leaps and a stubborn determination, until there is nothing left unknown _(he thinks). _He travels its roads with light feet and wary eyes, avoiding the very few creatures who still know its ways, shuddering at the caress of their power whilst he hides _(he is still young). _And then, when his fingers are twitching to destroy and break and _burn, _he runs far from Asgard-

-and ends up in Midgard. And, oh, it is _beautiful. _There is so much war and hatred and destruction, empires rising in a tempest of corruption and betrayal, before crashing down beneath the weight of its own treachery. The beings there, the humans, their lives are so short – but they are sharp and desperate and _bright. _They are supernovas, extinguished so quickly but so magnificently, so much _more _than the frozen images that the Asgardians paint with their eternal twilight. Their lives pass in mere blinks of an eye to an Asgardian, but how is their own perpetual torpor any better? Is it not greater to be sudden yet vivid than endless yet meaningless?

And it is not just its people that satisfies the restless beast that lurks in the recesses of its mind. The realm itself does not have anything similar to the gleaming brass cities of Asgard, the delicate arches and fine luxury of his home. But whereas Asgard is timeless and graceful in its natural beauty, almost cold, Midgard is all harsh edges and raw power. He decides that there is nothing more stunning than the utter discord of a volcano erupting, the disarray of an earthquake that brings even the most mighty of cities to its knees, the hulking mountains that rise from the ground over however many years like thick, tapering scars in the Earth's surface.

He knows that he cannot stay on Midgard forever, much as he would like to. Though his family _(the word tastes strange on his tongue; he doesn't think about why) _are used to his disappearances, his absence has surely been long enough to be noticed, and he would rather not they discover where he has taken refuge, lest he be forbidden. They will be suspicious of his dealings here, and though in truth he has hardly interacted with the mortals, preferring to observe and only give a nudge when needed, who would ever believe the God of Lies?

So he returns to Asgard _(it should not be so difficult to think home) _and listens to the tales of his brother's latest heroic escapades, whilst he closes his eyes and sees the daunting wave of a tsunami crashing down onto a large town, sees a wildfire spreading its lethal destruction, sees two armies clash and blood drench the sand. He smiles, and his fingers finally lessen in their drumming against the table _(Dun-dun, dun-dun)_.

Centuries pass like this, and he contents himself with battles _(he gets better at using his magic) _and politics _(and his words), _which are in many ways one in the same. His brother and his friends _(because they are Thor's friends, he will not delude himself into thinking otherwise) _don't understand why he so prefers to use his words over actions, his magic over the strength of a forged weapon. They do not see the intricacies in both speech and magic, the pure skill it takes to succeed in either. Magic is all but a forgotten art, hidden in a few remaining books and the minds of the oldest immortals. Most of it he has to figure out himself, and that it partly what makes a successful spell or rune so rewarding. The magic itself is bound to his very essence, providing a stability he is far from used to. It is comforting, like a mother's hug or a hand holding his own tightly, and he ignores any sparks of pride that insist his no need of such things. His magic is _his, _solely and completely, the one thing that will never betray or hurt or _leave him-_

Speaking is hardly as obscure, and he makes many an ally and enemy over the years, manages to inspire a brief revolution that is unfortunately snuffed out before it can come to fruition. There is no proof of his involvement in the minor rebellion, but the power of rumours and gossip should never be underestimated. He loses interest for a while, when each word that leaves his mouth is met with suspicion. For who will listen to, never mind trust, the words of the Liesmith?

And then-

_(Dun-dun, dun-dun, dun-dun, DUN-dun, DUN-dun, DUN-dun, DUN-DUN, DUN-DUN, DUN-DUN)_

He visits Midgard but it is not enough, the beast in his mind demands chaos, it will no longer be placated by the meagre squabbles of mortals _(his breath catches). _It wants _war, _the likes of which that Loki himself has never seen, it wants death and anarchy and it demands no less than the annihilation of an entire people-

Jötunheim. Already he is planning, the threads coming together like an intricate tapestry within his head, lovely yet terrible in its design. Part of him, small and insignificant feels doubt, worries of the repercussions should he fail, of the effects on those he cares for. But his emotions do not matter, not really.

Chaos needs its puppet, its host, and he has no choice but to dance to its strings.

**. . .**

**I had a of fun writing that! It was a lot easier than I expected, just kinda let myself ramble. I might continue this into a two-shot (is that what it's called?) if anyone is interested, and I hope you liked it, leave a review to let me know :)**

**(It's up to you guys to decide whether there is an actual force controlling Loki, or if it's all in his head. Let me know what you think, I'm always curious about how people interpret what I write, especially with things like this.)**

**As always, prompts are welcome, though I struggle with romance. I'm working on a Thor-centric one, so that should be out soon :)**


	3. Chapter 3, Thor - Age

The people of Midgard, Thor has noticed, do not seem to understand when he says that he is immortal.

_(for he has lived for such a long time and he will _continue_ to live, long after they have died, until Ragnar__ö__k arrives and everything starts anew once more) _

The face of SHIELD, the man they call Fury, think that he understands. The Asgardians are simply a race of aliens who have fooled themselves into thinking that they are gods. In his mind they are not gods, nor immortal beings who have been around longer than Fury's beloved Earth has been formed. They are no different than humans, and can be destroyed like them, even if the means happen to differ. Nothing, after all, can truly live forever.

He is wrong.

**. . .**

Thor leant against an oak tree, and smiled fondly. He remembered another oak tree, long ago after the fall of what many Midgardians believed was their first great empire, though he himself had seen many an empire rise that would be considered much greater. It was in what was now known as Germany, and he was known by another name during those times. It was somewhat difficult to remember which – he had been addressed by many over the centuries, and he had never seen much point in correcting them, as soon enough there would be a new generation with their own ideas and names.

The tree itself had been magnificent, by far the most beautiful he had encountered on Midgard. He had been there when it was little more than a sapling, and had watched with fascination as it grew into a proud, towering oak. He had spent many a week simply sitting in its highest branches, enjoying the peace it provided, and paying little mind to the humans who occasionally passed by, attempting to gain his attention but unable to reach his resting place. His identity was eventually revealed to them – to some extent, at least – and the tree became known as the Donar Oak; their name for him. He had left soon after the naming, feeling that he had overstayed his welcome, Asgard beckoning to him as only home could. He was angry when he returned after a decade of absence to find that it had been cut down by a Christian missionary, and had never been too fond of the Church and its variants since then.

It was somewhat odd, remembering Midgard as it had been all those years ago. It was quite amazing how much it had changed over the millennia. Whilst the technological differences were obvious, it was the culture he found most interesting. How simple it had been when it first began! And now, similar to the oak tree, it had grown and branched out from the weak sapling it once was to a mighty, interconnected network.

It was only in the past century that the humans had made themselves a people of worthy warriors. Whilst he doubted that alone they could stand against the majority of the other realms, they had not fallen into the period of stagnation that had taken hold of many. It pained him to include Asgard as one of them, but he refused to blind himself to what was true. He would no longer allow his arrogance to cloud his judgement.

Far too easy it had been to retain such confidence and selfishness, in a time of relative peace that had been the past few centuries. He was assured in his ability as the strongest warrior in Asgard - besides his father, of course – and had basked in the glory of being a prince for far too long. He recalled a time where peace was but a distant dream, an ideal that few remembered experiencing. Where ties between the realms were tremulous at best, and he was often called on to battle. There was no place for arrogance on the battlefield; all that existed was the next fight, the vicious struggle for survival. Death would not release its claim on him due to status or prestige, and he knew that there was no true difference between him any other being, Asgardian or otherwise. They were all of equal value, and that value accounted to very little.

On the day of his coronation he was a different Thor to the one who had learned this lesson in all its terrible intricacies. He was a dulled sword, left to rust and crack upon an altar of light and gold. He could not _see, _could not think and understand as he once could. He was a spoilt child, a young man drunk upon past victories and an illusion of invulnerability. He needed to once again be taught; to be sharpened.

As much as the consequences pained him, he couldn't help but be grateful for his brother's interference that day. He would not have made a good king, not as he was, and he would never truly believe himself worthy of such a responsibility after his actions. How foolish he was, to attempt to begin war once more with the Jötun! The devastation it would cause to Asgard alone, never mind the other realms when they inevitably were drawn into the fighting, could never be justified. It had taken the loss of his powers _(his strength his safety his family his home everything he knew and loved-) _for him to realize this.

His eyes slid closed and his thoughts turned deeper into his memories. It was always a somewhat dangerous endeavour, but he often appreciated the peace it brought to his mind; losing himself in memories of Before. When Midgard was but an infant, and Asgard was far from the majesty it now flaunted. He remembered sitting as judge at the foot of Yggdrasil, when the ancient paths were still accessible. Remembered the dwarf Alvíss, whom he learnt many of the numerous wonders of the universe from, however unwillingly. Remembered when he and Loki were not brothers, and their interactions were rarely more than an exchange of insults and threats, the half-god at once an ally and an enemy.

_(He remembers the end; the world tree quakes and the great serpent writhes and the heavens split apart and it is _chaos. _He remembers the endless battles between gods and monsters, between all realms and peoples until there is nothing left. His father and mother and brothers and wife and friends – deaddeaddead – but he is protector of the Earth and he has a duty, and he defeats the serpent but _the bright snake gapes to heavens above _and _nine steps_ does his take, its deadly poison finally taking effect, leaving his heart stuttering in his chest, and when he sinks he is anything but fearless.)_

His eyes snapped open, the blue vivid in its swirling mix of _sadnessterrorconfusionvictoryanxietysorrowacceptan ce. _

_(He dies, and the cycle starts over once more)_

His mother told him once that it was only he and herself who could remember what came Before,

who could remember who they once were _(he is but a child and looks in a mirror and thinks _wrong, _thinks _where is my red?_). _She did not know why _(but he can separate truth from lie, when his judgement is not clouded by the arrogance of his later life)_, and it was rare that he ever brought it up with her _(she looks so sad). _He did not tell anyone else, at her request, and had little temptation to do otherwise.

That was immortality; a never-ending cycle of life and death and struggle and happiness and love and hate and wonder and fear- it was insanity, and he could barely keep himself from losing himself to it. Perhaps it was merely his own innate stubbornness; he was rather firmly set in his ways after so many millennia, and wasn't about to give up any time soon. The warrior that he identified himself by would never allow such a disgrace. Just as it had drove him to seek battle, it demanded his continued survival with just as much – if not more – ferocity. 

**. . .**

So the Avengers forget how old he is, just how much he has experienced and seen, and – though he hates this thought – just how small and insignificant they are. Or rather, they will be, when another millennia has passed and they are but memories. By no means does this mean he doesn't care about them, but it is all too easy to think _(during another fight, another end-of-the-world scenario, another matter of vital importance) in a few centuries time..._

Usually he can dismiss these thoughts, and force himself to live solely in the present. He hopes that they will never know of this, of how sometimes he can't help but scoff at their problems _(petty), _recalling his own troubles and those of people he had known or observed, and think _this is nothing. _

They are a lot like children, to a being of his age. They do not see this, of course, and he knows that they often think of him as the ignorant one on the team, the 'tank' who is ignorant to the ways of their world, their technology and culture. This is of course false - when you have lived as long as he there is very little you do not know, or cannot learn – but he sees no reason to correct them, to help them realise (especially Fury) the danger he and his people pose. He may not yet be wise, but he has learnt to be wary. Whilst he may consider Midgard under his protection, he duty is first to Asgard as its prince.

Perhaps one day they will learn the truth of his existence, should he ever trust them to such a vast extent, but until then he will allow their dismissal and savour the time he has with them. He knows, better than anyone else, just how fleeing happiness can be.

**. . .**

**So, uh, this didn't quite turn out how I thought it would, but I hope you guys enjoyed anyway. I apologise if it got a bit confusing :) As always, prompts are welcome, and reviews are really encouraging! **


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